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John...	By : moonshape Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1934 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-‘John...’
- 1
Title: ‘John...’ [R/NC-17]

Author: Foxy Badger

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Genre: angst, slash (M/M), drama, hurt/comfort

Summary: After the incident in the swimming pool with Moriarty, John has issues coping with the fact he and Sherlock could have died. Sherlock too has come to realise life could be over before they know it and decides to be a better friend to John.

Warnings: Dominant!Sherlock, frotting, noncon

Disclaimer: Story is mine. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Sir Conan Doyle. BBC Sherlock to the BBC. No profit made. Just for fun.

~
Sherlock lowers the gun, his eyes scanning the upper balcony of the pool. He sees dark shadows moving and disappearing through a door. They seem to be gone.
He looks down at John who lets himself slide down to the floor, sitting cross- legged with his back against the wall. He sighs, swallows and rests his head back against the stall.
Sherlock puts the gun away and crouches down in front of his friend, taking his head between his hands. ‘Are you alright?’
John opens his eyes and nodded. ‘Shouldn’t you be going after him?’
‘Let’s get you home first,’ Sherlock shifts to John’s side and places a hand under his armpit, helping him onto his feet again. But John’s legs are still like jelly and they give way when he tries to put his weight on them.
‘Want me call Lestrade and have a private ambulance?’
‘No – no, I’m fine, Sherlock.’
‘Clearly you’re not.’
‘No I’m – I’m fine,’ his voice trembling as Sherlock escorts him to the door.
‘You’re in shock – you’ll need a blanket,’ Sherlock jokes.
John chuckles nervously but when Sherlock takes his phone out to call Lestrade, he places his hand over the phone.
‘Let’s go home,’ he says, his eyes almost pleading as he thinks about curling up underneath his own duvet.
~
Little beads of sweat glide down his temple, staining the pillow as they fall upon the fabric. He turns his head, breathing into the pillow, his eyes rolling behind his eyelids. His lips parted as he exhales deeply.
There’s a flash of light and an explosion. Men fall and men are injured. Blood is everywhere; on his clothes, his hands and his face. The sand is red as men lie in puddles of their own blood. All dead. Families. Friends. All lost. Young men with long lives ahead of them. Ended prematurely by enemy fire.
‘John –
His name comes from far away. He whimpers and turns his head again.
They have all fallen to the ground as an explosion deafens them. Men are screaming in pain and someone shouts for him to help. He climbs out of the fox hole he’s hiding in and falls flat on his stomach at once. He crawls on and reaches a body in the sand. Dead. He continues on to the next.
‘John –
Again his name and something brushes past his cheek. Something warm?
He wipes his sleeve past his cheek and looks down. Blood gushes out of his cheek. Dust blinds him and he lowers his goggles over his eyes and ties his scarf around his face a bit tighter. He crawls on and reaches a young soldier who is lying in the dirt, desperately trying to keep his entrails in place as a deep cut has ripped open his abdomen. How the hell is he to help this man? He looks at the young lad whose eyes are huge with fear and he stares at them. He can’t be older than 21. And he is going to die in a far-away country, away from his mother and the ones he loves. John gets up and leaves the lad to die and hurries over to the next. A dead Afghan woman, clutching a child to her chest. Both dead.
‘John, wake up,’ someone shakes his shoulder and he feels a hand on his neck. ‘You’re dreaming.’
He feels something force itself into his shoulder. He reaches over and digs his fingers into the hole that had appeared in his clothes. He withdraws his fingers but there is no blood. But there is a hole; there’s an entrance hole in his clothes. He unzips his bulletproof vest and unbuttons his shirt. He pulls his t-shirt up and feels nauseatingly dizzy. A bomb, strapped to his chest. Lots of wires. Lots of little lights. It is beeping.
‘John!’
It goes off.
His eyes fly open as he wakes up, giving a startled yelp and he wants to jump up. But something or someone is restricting his movements. His eyes fly across the room, flashing from object to object, it soon becomes clear someone is sitting on his bedside. Sherlock has woken him from his dream.
‘You were dreaming,’ his flatmate repeats.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks flabbergasted as he tries to sit up, trying to form some distance between him and the other man. ‘This is my room.’
‘You woke up Mrs. Hudson – you were shouting,’ Sherlock explains his voice sounding clear, like it usually does when he is deducing out loud. ‘I heard you shouting.’
‘I – I was dreaming,’ John stammers. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘I – dreaming,’ John pants as he presses his fingers against his eyes.
There is a short pause in which Sherlock looks down at John again, as he catches his breath.
‘What was it, John?’ Sherlock asks with a lowered voice, as if he tries to be kind. As if he shows interest. ‘What causes you to have nightmares so often?’
‘So – often?’ John pants as he frowns and scrutinises his flatmate with great interest. ‘Are you-- spying on me in my sleep?’
‘Half the street can hear you!’ his voice sounds less kind again. Like it normally does; it’s less frightful to John in fact.
‘It’s – it’s just the war, that’s all,’ he says, closing his eyes and wiping the sweat off his brow. For a moment he blinks frantically, clearing the sand out of his eyes and he adds: ‘The war – always the war.’
‘John,’ Sherlock says and closes his eyes for a moment again. ‘You agreed to work with me because you love the excitement before, during and after a fight. You were bored! You limped. Ever since we moved in here you’ve been fine with what you’ve seen. Blood doesn’t scare you or else you would never toddle along after me with every case I accept.’
He lowers his chin and looks at John from underneath his eyebrows and asks interrogatively.
‘What are you dreaming about?’
‘Do you even need to ask?’ John says annoyingly and slaps Sherlock’s hands away and turns on his side, away from Sherlock and facing the wall. He rubs his eyes again.
‘Is it – the bomb?’
John’s head shoots back to Sherlock, his eyebrows rise.
‘How do you – oh, never mind,’ he says as he faces the wall again.
‘I’ve yet to see you so afraid,’ Sherlock says in the same soft way he had asked about the dream. John realises this tone is rather unusual and odd for his flatmate. ‘Are you afraid of death?’ Sherlock continues.
‘No it’s not –,’ John says as he keeps himself facing the wall. ‘It’s just – it was a bomb, Sherlock,’ and he turns to see his flatmate. ‘Bombs tend to scare people, Sherlock. Including me,’ and he looks away again but this time doesn’t turn back towards the wall.
Sherlock pauses, trying to choose his words carefully: ‘John – if you need to talk –
‘I’m fine,’ John interrupts him and sits up, moving over to the side of the bed as if he was to get up. Sherlock shifts, giving his flatmate the space to get away. But he doesn’t. John sits down on the side of the bed and dips his chin against his chest, sighing deep and staring at the floor.
Sherlock watches his profile, his eyes roaming over every muscle in John’s tightened jaw.
Stress, he deduces. Post-traumatic? Possibly.
‘Was this your first encounter with a bomb?’ he asks cautiously.
John nods. ‘Never – before. I mean – I’ve seen a few – you know, booby-traps. Granates. But never – a real – ticking bomb.’ He pauses and looks sideways at his flatmate and asks: ‘You?’
Sherlock shrugs indifferently.
‘Oh you know – the occasional. I spent half a year scanning packages at the Royal Mail a few years ago. And I never use public transportation since the London Bombing. Wouldn’t want to have this brain blown up by the worst, dullest terrorist group. I’m better than that,’ he rants while tapping his temple. John frowns at him incredulously. Sherlock swallows and lowers his hand and continues: ‘But apart from that – I’ve never seen anyone I cared about be threatened by a bomb before.’
John’s frown becomes a stare and he stammers: ‘Er – that’s very thoughtful of you,’ although he wasn’t sure how truthful his flatmate was right now.
‘I mean it,’ Sherlock says as he lifts a leg up onto the bed, sitting on one knee while his body turned to John. ‘I –I was afraid, John.’
‘You really were?’ he asks as he raises his eyebrows again. This was, after all, not normal behaviour for Sherlock Holmes. Never had he spoken about his emotions or feelings before and John wondered why he would suddenly do so now.
Was it genuine? Was he really that shocked? Shocked enough to admit to him how he felt? It seemed unusual for Sherlock’s standards. They have been living on Baker Street for months now and John realises he still doesn’t know his flatmate as well as he thought he did.
Sherlock suddenly shifts an inch closer and takes John’s face between his hands again– just like he had done at the swimming pool weeks ago.
‘Wow – what?’ John stammers as he tries to move away. But Sherlock’s hands are tightly holding his head and John fears he will pull a muscle in his neck if he tries to pull his head back. The man is lean and skinny but John knows Sherlock was a fair boxer in his earlier days. ‘Let go, Sherlock,’ he tries as he frowns angrily at his flatmate.
‘I was afraid I was going to lose you,’ Sherlock interrupts John’s stammering. ‘If – if that phone call had never happened – if I had pulled the trigger. We all could have died.’
‘Sherlock—,’ John tries to stop Sherlock from rambling but a set of lips press against his own. His eyes are wide open and he’s unable to focus his sight as Sherlock is closer than he has ever been. He’s kissing him.
‘Sherlock – what the—,’ he asks, but Sherlock won’t budge.
‘Shut up, John,’ Sherlock says as he shifts closer to his flatmate. ‘I’m trying to prove my point.’
‘What point?!’ John exclaims and gives the other man a rough push, their lips breaking contact. ‘What the hell are you on about?!’
‘That I do care,’ he breaths before taking John’s lower lip between his own, biting it gently.
John starts to struggle but he’s not sure why. He’s a bloke! He can’t snog a man! And most of all, not Sherlock Holmes! He wants to snog Sarah, not his flatmate!
‘Get off, Sherlock!’ he grunts and turns his face away, forcing Sherlock to end the kiss. ‘I’m not gay!’ he has spoken those words too often for his liking.
But Sherlock doesn’t get off. Instead he grabs John by his shoulders and pushes his down, hopping onto his lap to straddle his legs.
‘Will you get off?!’ John’s brows furrow as he starts to grow angry and impatient. ‘I’m not into this!’
‘I was afraid,’ Sherlock whispers as he takes John’s wrists in his hands to pin them down beside the pillow. ‘John, I was so afraid. I have never felt so much fear in my life before, John.’
‘That’s not a reason to snog me, Sherlock,’ John indicates, but Sherlock shakes his head.
‘It made me realise,’ Sherlock croaks softly as if trying to hide the emotion that seemed to dwell in his eyes. ‘I – I care for you, John. Whatever I’ve said or done –‘
‘You care for me?’ John repeats, slurring the words and raising his eyebrows in confusion. ‘What does care mean in that mind of yours?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock answers in whispers, bringing his face close to John’s again. ‘I never have – cared before.’
‘Have you turned gay?’ John arches one eyebrow this time, confused at the sudden change of sexuality of his friend. But, he then realises, does Sherlock Holmes have a sexuality? And has he always known what it was? ‘Married to my work,’ he had called it once.
‘One doesn’t need to be gay to care about someone,’ Sherlock mutters as he gently places his trembling lips upon John’s again.
John waits patiently until the man finishes the kiss and asks: ‘What if I don’t want this?’
Sherlock pulls his head back and his eyes race over John’s face, scrutinizing every bit of it and looking utterly confused.
‘I thought you wouldn’t –‘
‘I love Sarah, Sherlock,’ John announces and Sherlock narrows his eyes, a smirk appearing on his lips.
‘No you don’t – you said yourself you just want to get off with her.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t mind if, nyaaaaah,’ he gasps as Sherlock releases his left wrist and places his hand on his crotch, his eyes wide with shock. ‘That’s – rather forward.’
‘Is it?’ Sherlock asks as he gives John’s bulge a firm squeeze and John feels his stomach tighten at once. He closes his eyes and swallows hard, shaking his head as he starts to stammer: ‘N-No, Sherlock—S-Sarah—‘
‘I can give whatever Sarah can give,’ he breathes in John’s face as he forces his hand down is pyjama pants. ‘What any other woman can give,’ and his hand cups John’s penis
‘I’m not ga-gay,’ John croaks.
‘Then why don’t you stop me?’ Sherlock breathes sharply as he toys with John’s testicles for a moment. ‘Your hand is free – stop me.’
But John doesn’t. He is too mesmerised as to what Sherlock is doing to him and wonders how far the man would go to get what he wants. He is very aware of what the man’s hand is doing to his genitals and isn’t able to tell his friend to stop. Even when Sherlock closes his hand around his cock he doesn’t lift his hand to push Sherlock away. He lets him touch him. For whatever reason. He realises it has been some time since he has been with a woman. He has been dating Sarah for weeks now but hasn’t slept with her. Is he that desperate for sex?
‘You have an erection,’ Sherlock notes and John closes his eyes, tightening his jaw.
‘Every healthy man would!’ he blurts out. ‘Damnit Sherlock, you’re – you’re wanking me!’
‘So it seems,’ Sherlock smirks and starts to move his hand. ‘Does it bother you?’
‘Yes!’ John says and makes a frustrated hand gesture before covering his eyes with his hand but speaks no more.
For a moment Sherlock stops his hand movement to push John’s pyjama pants down slightly, taking his manhood out of his pants to give himself the ability to move his hand better. And John lets him. He remains passive as Sherlock strokes his cock.
After a minute he has gathered up enough courage to look down at what the other is man doing and notices the equally solid bulge in Sherlock’s pyjama pants.
‘You’ve got an erection,’ he repeats Sherlock’s words.
‘Every man would,’ Sherlock repeats in return and finally lets go of John’s other hand, fumbling with the front of his own pants and takes his own erect cock out. He strokes it with his own hand and John watches as a single drop of moisture runs down the man’s thin hands. He swallows hard and looks away. Too embarrassed to accept what is happening.
‘Relax, John,’ Sherlock whispers as he rests his lips upon John’s temple for a moment. Sherlock moves himself closer and their cocks touch. Sherlock lets out a whimper-y gasp and John’s eyes bulge from their sockets.
‘Oh God,’ he croaks and arches his back as Sherlock closes one hand around their cocks, placing his other beside John’s trembling body to support himself. ‘Oh God, that’s—that’s—‘
‘I know,’ Sherlock’s breathes with an equally tight throat.
Sherlock trusts his hips forward and his cock brushes harder against John’s, his hand making sure they keep in contact. He continues to make this motion and soon starts to move his hand as well, pulling their foreskins back in unison. John grips the side of the mattress with dear life, unable to control his muscles at this point. He pushes his pelvis up against the other man – pleading for more and hardly noticing his body has given in. Sherlock notices the movement and slows his hand down.
‘Too fast?’ he rumbles into John’s ear.
‘N-No, don’t stop,’ John urges him and claws at the man’s thigh, as if trying to find a grip to prevent the man from moving away.
It takes Sherlock about twenty strokes before he comes, moaning into John’s ear, his hot breath hitting his face and warm seed running down his own and John’s cock, making Sherlock’s hand slicker. Another ten strokes and John gasps, now spilling his own seed on his stomach and t-shirt.
‘Oh – Jesus,’ he breathes as he clings onto Sherlock, both hands clawing at the man’s leg and upper arm as if he was to slip away.
Sherlock sits up and takes his shirt off and for a moment, John’s eye bulge. What is he going to do now? But he just uses his shirt to wipe himself, his hand, John’s penis and stomach off. For a moment John fears there will be more but he is thankful there isn’t; being touched all of a sudden by his best friend was already shocking enough for him. The fact that he had enjoyed it was worse.
Instead, Sherlock climbs off him and lies on his back beside John, bare-chested and still panting. Both men stare up at the ceiling.
It’s John who speaks first: ‘I – I had no idea you had it in you—‘
‘Had what?’
‘That – desire,’ John puts it, for he has no other words for it.
‘I’m not entirely alien, John.’
‘No, you’re not,’ John sighs and a chuckle erupts from his throat as he suddenly starts to realise what has just happened to him. A grin spreads on his face as he rubs it.
‘What?’ he hears Sherlock ask him.
‘Nothing,’ he giggles and removes his hand from his face. ‘It’s just—what have we just done?’ he asks in a state of giddiness.
Sherlock needs a second to think but replies in a droning voice: ‘We’ve – just performed the act of two men pleasuring each other.’
‘So it seems,’ John says and turns on his side, his back turned towards Sherlock. His giddiness had disappeared as soon as it had appeared, and realisation struck him now completely.
He hears Sherlock move and an arm wraps around John’s chest. He listens to the man’s steady breathing and stars to grow at ease again, feeling oddly comforted by Sherlock embracing him.
‘Good night, John,’ Sherlock mutters wearily and John smiles, placing his hand on top of Sherlock’s.
‘Good night, Sherlock.’

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